Call and Answer
by Ghibli
Summary: Reality has a way of creeping into one’s subconscious. Sometimes it prevents you from sleeping, from getting that needed rest after a draining crime scene. And just as you’re about to fall asleep, the phone rings. GS


**Title: **Call and Answer

**Author**: Ghibli

**Rating:** PG-13

**Summary: **Reality has a way of creeping into one's subconscious. Sometimes it prevents you from sleeping, from getting that needed rest after a draining crime scene. And just as you're about to fall asleep, the phone rings. G/S

**Disclaimer**: How about none? Got a glorious stock portfolio, a few healthy off-shore bank accounts and a palatial estate on the shores of Lac Leman as well as in Virginia. Yes, life's wonderful. Oh wait, that isn't happening in this reality. What I do have is a wonderful family and some terrific friends, more important than money. No way you can sue me for that. And no, I'm not being sarcastic.

**Spoilers:** All the eps that have aired in the US are fair game. If you haven't seen the first half of season 5 yet, there's a little spoiler here. Then again, if you're not spoiled, how does one recognize it?

* * *

She longed for the silence, for the, albeit it constricted, space of her apartment. She was numb with pain, and it unsettled her.

Another day, another case, and another victim who was violated in ways she had seen before, but never would get used to, or accept. A child starved to death, a mother tortured and raped, seeing her daughter slowly die in front of her. No means of escape, no one who took the time to file a missing persons report. Humanity wasn't all that it was cracked up to be, Sara thought.

The room had smelled foul, decaying flesh and faeces, a rotting rat curled up in one of the corners, carrion beetles having a field day. Mouth masks were put on, to minimize the dangers of infections from inhaling the unclear air. Pale and bile-swallowing officers in the shack, demure ones outside guarding the scene.

There was plenty of evidence. Rape kits on both victims came back positive, with enough matching DNA samples to send him to jail. For life. Unfortunately, he had taken his life before they could even usher him into the waiting police car. He had been waiting for them, for the cops and the investigators. And as a final act of degradation to his 'toys', to his wife and child, he killed himself. Sauntered up to the shack from a nearby meadow and stood there, grinning. And shot himself in plain view. The scene was supposed to be secure, but it wasn't.

Shock and slight chaos erupted, but it passed her by. He could have injured, even killed, anyone on scene had he chosen to do so, and creep up on them. But he didn't. That would have been implying that he was afraid of them somehow, that he wanted to hurt people who had no ties to him. And she knew that that wasn't his motivation. For some reason, he loved his family in a disgusting, hatred-filled way that no sane person would understand without becoming disgusted with himself. When she came back home, the silence was a welcome change to the sound of the gunshot, to the yelling for an ambulance, to the hushed whispers amongst the dead. But soon, the sound of nothingness, too, became oppressive in itself. The numbness remained, lethargy taking residence in her body. She was just tired. Dead tired. And numb. The kind where one has to breathe deeply because the person is afraid to have an attack of sorts. The type where one looks around and sees, but not observes. Where one can go through the motions and do whatever's required, without remembering doing so. Where one has driven five miles, but can only remember leaving the parking lot.

While walking, nearly stumbling into her bedroom, she divested herself of her tie–dyed shirt and threw it in the direction of the bedroom chair, not caring whether it landed there, or on the floor. Moments later, she unhooked her bra and flicked it away without caring, and this time it landed unceremoniously on the floor. She sat down on the bed, pulling off her socks and slowly rubbing them a bit, trying to get some of the cut-off circulation back. She'd been standing or walking most of the shift, and together with the fatigue, her feet hurt. It seemed as though physical and mental pain conspired to play up at the same time; add a headache to it all and Sara only wanted to crawl into the bed she was sitting on and stretch, sinking into a dark, dreamless sleep.

But what Sara wanted rarely happened. She didn't have a loving, carefree childhood. She had one that involved murder and survivor's guilt. She had no stable research career. She had a pressure-filled, passionately painful job. And there was no loved one to greet her in the kitchen when she came home after a demanding shift. No husband, no boyfriend, no (foster) child. Not even a cat.

Slipping off her pants, she crawled underneath the covers. They were thick, just as she liked them during this time of the year. Sometimes she'd get so cold during the phase before she fell asleep, that she'd clutch the blanket all around her and snuggle up, resembling a filly with her knees tucked close to her, brown eyes slightly dazed.

Drifting off, she slipped into a state of semi-consciousness. Images and contemplations run amuck in her mind, stepping onto the foreground and just as quickly slipping away when she was near to finding a solution to a problem, or realizing some long-lost hidden meaning. Maybe there should be darkness, now that she had her eyes closed. But there wasn't, not really. There was a form of color, of a presence of a black and white, dashed with color, landscape. It was comforting yet draining, a mine-field with daises. When the jumble of remarks and photos died down, and she slipped into sleep, the phone rang.

_God damn phone._ Sara pulled the covers over her some more, but it rang a second time, third, fourth… Somehow, the name of her supervisor crept up into her consciousness, but she consciously shoved it back down. It couldn't be him. Wouldn't be him. She left three hours ago, while he was still there at his desk, working on whatever bureaucratic, inane request had been passed on by Ecklie. Reaching out for her cell phone, she didn't even bother to look at the backlit display.

"'Allo?"

"Sara? I didn't wake you, did I? If so, I'll…" His voice was hesitant, apologetic. She sounded tired, and the black shadows underneath her eyes earlier that shift, as well as her calmness, had driven home the realization that she wasn't coping as well as he had thought. Or deluded himself into hoping.

"No, it's fine. Couldn't sleep anyways." One hand rubbed her eyes in a remarkably child-like gesture. "What's up?"

Silence. Then a little huff. "Nothing, I suppose. Just… wondered how you were doing. It was an eventful shift."

She rolled over, leaning her face on a propped up elbow. "Hmmhm. I'm okay, though. Really." Her hand tangled in her hair, fluffing it up a little. "I'm dealing with things. It's getting easier. Don't worry. And you?"

"Life meanders on, and I try to catch up, I suppose." Grissom kicked off his shoes and reclined on the couch, propping his feet up on the table in utter exhaustion. He couldn't remember dialing her number, yet there she was, on the other end of the line, talking to him. Perhaps it was awkward, but it was also oddly reminiscent of the 'old times'. Of when they used to call each other at irregular intervals, just to hear the other's voice. To find comfort, inspiration, even solace, there. And, he realized, that's what her voice was doing for him now. Soothing him, irrationally as it might sound to a stranger. "Got any pointers on how to cope with it all?"

Sara wasn't sure how to take that. Face to face, she could have observed his eyes, his posture. Now, all she had to go on was his voice, and it sounded devoid of any humor or sarcasm. "Grissom, why now? I mean, you call me out the blue, sounding… almost defeated. You've been in this job the longest, you must have ways in which you cope. I know you do, you can't remain so stoic and strong and not burn out otherwise. Tell me what you do, maybe we could learn from each other."

She wasn't trying to guess as to his methods of coping. Both of them were exhausted, and the continuous waltz of dancing around the nuclei of their mutual attraction and fears was too much energy to keep up. Straight answers were what she wanted, needed even. And Grissom seemed to be ready for that, too. Exhaustion, like liquor, paved a way for the truth to seep out, to spill into the open and be heard.

His hesitancy in voicing something so personal carried through in his tone, in the way the words were spoken slower, as though each word was measured whether or not it was safe to be said out loud. But the words came, gaining confidence as she responded with her own questions and ways of coping.

Putting the phone on speaker, she placed the cell on the pillow next to her and relaxed back under the covers, head once again propped up on her elbow. They were opening up to each other once again, work and personal boundaries fading. It was the start of… something. Of what exactly, Sara wasn't sure. But that it was a positive development, of that she was sure.

**The End.**


End file.
